News
ENLARGE
Jon Gibans stared intently out the window of the plane. Thousands of feet below, broken patches of ice steadily increased in thickness as open water melded with solid ground. Soon, Greenland's coastline emerged, a hard shell lined by sharp peaks rising out of the snow.
There were no signs of life. Untamed wilderness stretched to the horizon - and beyond.
"It was spectacular," remembered Gibans, a doctor at the Snowmass Clinic and at a hospital in Rifle. "Wow. We're here."
Aspenite Ted Mahon was similarly captivated by the sight. The accomplished 33-year-old mountaineer, who, like Gibans, has scaled Everest and climbed peaks on continents across the globe, had never considered an excursion like this.
Skiing in Greenland? Highly unlikely. But possible.
<b>One man's mission</b>
Mahon was introduced to Heidar Gudjonsson by mutual friend Katie Monahan in March 2005. Not long after, Gudjonsson divulged his idea for an expedition to the desolate island, and inquired about Mahon's level of interest. Mahon shrugged it off as an unlikely plan that didn't carry much, if any, weight.
Monahan knew better.
"He's not making it up," Mahon remembered her saying.
There were no signs of life. Untamed wilderness stretched to the horizon - and beyond.
"It was spectacular," remembered Gibans, a doctor at the Snowmass Clinic and at a hospital in Rifle. "Wow. We're here."
Aspenite Ted Mahon was similarly captivated by the sight. The accomplished 33-year-old mountaineer, who, like Gibans, has scaled Everest and climbed peaks on continents across the globe, had never considered an excursion like this.
Skiing in Greenland? Highly unlikely. But possible.
<b>One man's mission</b>
Mahon was introduced to Heidar Gudjonsson by mutual friend Katie Monahan in March 2005. Not long after, Gudjonsson divulged his idea for an expedition to the desolate island, and inquired about Mahon's level of interest. Mahon shrugged it off as an unlikely plan that didn't carry much, if any, weight.
Monahan knew better.
"He's not making it up," Mahon remembered her saying.
Nearly one full winter and countless ski trips passed when, without warning, an e-mail from Iceland appeared in Mahon's in-box. It was from Gudjonsson, and he had an interesting proposition: If Mahon agreed to be an assistant guide, an all-expenses-paid ski trip to Greenland in May awaited him. (Mahon would later find out the expedition cost nearly $10,000 per person.)
He was intrigued.
"I don't know anyone, aside from wealthy homeowners who stop to refuel jets before heading to Europe, that have been there," Mahon said. "Some of those peaks have never been climbed or skied. You can't say that around here. How many people can say they've been to a place where very few, if any, have been?"
Gudjonsson had been on a previous excursion to Liverpool Land, a remote area on the east side of Greenland. Now he wanted to up the ante. But to pull off his newest, most ambitious mission - to become the second team to complete a winter ascent of Gunnbjorns Fjeld, Greenland and the Arctic's highest peak at 12,100 feet - he would need an experienced core group of skiers and climbers.
Gudjonsson first extended a free invite to Monahan, a close friend and professional skier. He then enlisted Mahon. Gibans and Alex Jacobi, from Bozeman, Mont., were also invited.
Gibans, who is headed to Asia later this month to scale China's 25,325-foot Muztagh Ata, was invited to go to Greenland five years ago, but declined because he didn't think he could afford it. When the opportunity arose again, he couldn't turn it down. And this time he only had to pay his way to Reykjavik, Iceland.
The trip was funded by six participants - Gudjonsson and two friends from Iceland, as well as three New York venture capitalists. United Kingdom-based Tangent Expeditions International was charged with logistics and the itinerary, as well as providing the team with a guide.
"It's funny. I was just calling Katie to talk about going on a desert bike trip," Gibans said. "I had so many other things going on that I was afraid the timing wouldn't work. But the lucky thing for me is that it's easy to find the time."
Gibans and Monahan took that bike trip to Utah's White Rim Trail outside Moab. Five days after returning, on May 1, they left with Mahon from Denver. After a stop in Baltimore, the trio headed for Reykjavik - a six-hour flight - and a most unusual adventure.
He was intrigued.
"I don't know anyone, aside from wealthy homeowners who stop to refuel jets before heading to Europe, that have been there," Mahon said. "Some of those peaks have never been climbed or skied. You can't say that around here. How many people can say they've been to a place where very few, if any, have been?"
Gudjonsson had been on a previous excursion to Liverpool Land, a remote area on the east side of Greenland. Now he wanted to up the ante. But to pull off his newest, most ambitious mission - to become the second team to complete a winter ascent of Gunnbjorns Fjeld, Greenland and the Arctic's highest peak at 12,100 feet - he would need an experienced core group of skiers and climbers.
Gudjonsson first extended a free invite to Monahan, a close friend and professional skier. He then enlisted Mahon. Gibans and Alex Jacobi, from Bozeman, Mont., were also invited.
Gibans, who is headed to Asia later this month to scale China's 25,325-foot Muztagh Ata, was invited to go to Greenland five years ago, but declined because he didn't think he could afford it. When the opportunity arose again, he couldn't turn it down. And this time he only had to pay his way to Reykjavik, Iceland.
The trip was funded by six participants - Gudjonsson and two friends from Iceland, as well as three New York venture capitalists. United Kingdom-based Tangent Expeditions International was charged with logistics and the itinerary, as well as providing the team with a guide.
"It's funny. I was just calling Katie to talk about going on a desert bike trip," Gibans said. "I had so many other things going on that I was afraid the timing wouldn't work. But the lucky thing for me is that it's easy to find the time."
Gibans and Monahan took that bike trip to Utah's White Rim Trail outside Moab. Five days after returning, on May 1, they left with Mahon from Denver. After a stop in Baltimore, the trio headed for Reykjavik - a six-hour flight - and a most unusual adventure.
<b>The waiting game</b>
The group, which numbered 11, met at the Icelandic capitol in early morning and soon boarded a plane bound for the sleepy fishing town of Isafjordur on the country's northwest coast. It is a town so small (population 3,000) that Mahon, who spent a week there in 2003 as part of the TV show "Global Extremes," ran into a friend he had met three years earlier.
The plan was to make the 1-hour-and-45-minute flight to Greenland that day in two groups. Mahon was on the first flight, but the plane was forced to turn back because of inclement weather. The group would soon become all too familiar with the phrase "weather permitting."
"It was cloudy on the glacier," Gibans said. "Because it's so far away, you don't get a second chance."
Each morning thereafter, the team went to the airport, gear in hand, and waited anxiously for the weather report to be delivered via satellite phone from Greenland. They received bad news for four days; the team budgeted a total of just 10 days to complete the entire trip.
The expedition team bided their time by skiing the slopes that surrounded the town in the afternoons and evenings; the sun didn't set until 10:30.
Days were filled with food and lots of beer, Mahon said. In between, he kept entertained by wandering the local supermarket, looking at the unusual names on the personalized mugs - they ran out of ones for girls named Hildur.
The group, which numbered 11, met at the Icelandic capitol in early morning and soon boarded a plane bound for the sleepy fishing town of Isafjordur on the country's northwest coast. It is a town so small (population 3,000) that Mahon, who spent a week there in 2003 as part of the TV show "Global Extremes," ran into a friend he had met three years earlier.
The plan was to make the 1-hour-and-45-minute flight to Greenland that day in two groups. Mahon was on the first flight, but the plane was forced to turn back because of inclement weather. The group would soon become all too familiar with the phrase "weather permitting."
"It was cloudy on the glacier," Gibans said. "Because it's so far away, you don't get a second chance."
Each morning thereafter, the team went to the airport, gear in hand, and waited anxiously for the weather report to be delivered via satellite phone from Greenland. They received bad news for four days; the team budgeted a total of just 10 days to complete the entire trip.
The expedition team bided their time by skiing the slopes that surrounded the town in the afternoons and evenings; the sun didn't set until 10:30.
Days were filled with food and lots of beer, Mahon said. In between, he kept entertained by wandering the local supermarket, looking at the unusual names on the personalized mugs - they ran out of ones for girls named Hildur.
Gibans, who is headed to Asia later this month to scale China's 25,325-foot Muztagh Ata, was invited to go to Greenland five years ago, but declined because he didn't think he could afford it. When the opportunity arose again, he couldn't turn it down. And this time he only had to pay his way to Reykjavik, Iceland.
The trip was funded by six participants - Gudjonsson and two friends from Iceland, as well as three New York venture capitalists. United Kingdom-based Tangent Expeditions International was charged with logistics and the itinerary, as well as providing the team with a guide.
"It's funny. I was just calling Katie to talk about going on a desert bike trip," Gibans said. "I had so many other things going on that I was afraid the timing wouldn't work. But the lucky thing for me is that it's easy to find the time."
Gibans and Monahan took that bike trip to Utah's White Rim Trail outside Moab. Five days after returning, on May 1, they left with Mahon from Denver. After a stop in Baltimore, the trio headed for Reykjavik - a six-hour flight - and a most unusual adventure.
The waiting game
The group, which numbered 11, met at the Icelandic capitol in early morning and soon boarded a plane bound for the sleepy fishing town of Isafjordur on the country's northwest coast. It is a town so small (population 3,000) that Mahon, who spent a week there in 2003 as part of the TV show "Global Extremes," ran into a friend he had met three years earlier.
The trip was funded by six participants - Gudjonsson and two friends from Iceland, as well as three New York venture capitalists. United Kingdom-based Tangent Expeditions International was charged with logistics and the itinerary, as well as providing the team with a guide.
"It's funny. I was just calling Katie to talk about going on a desert bike trip," Gibans said. "I had so many other things going on that I was afraid the timing wouldn't work. But the lucky thing for me is that it's easy to find the time."
Gibans and Monahan took that bike trip to Utah's White Rim Trail outside Moab. Five days after returning, on May 1, they left with Mahon from Denver. After a stop in Baltimore, the trio headed for Reykjavik - a six-hour flight - and a most unusual adventure.
The waiting game
The group, which numbered 11, met at the Icelandic capitol in early morning and soon boarded a plane bound for the sleepy fishing town of Isafjordur on the country's northwest coast. It is a town so small (population 3,000) that Mahon, who spent a week there in 2003 as part of the TV show "Global Extremes," ran into a friend he had met three years earlier.
But the group was growing anxious with each passing day. Robin Beadle, the Tangent guide, created such a rift that he was temporarily relieved of his duties.
After four days of waiting, the weather window opened. Mahon, Monahan and four others were on their way.
It was midafternoon by the time they touched down some 30 miles inland. The enormity and complete isolation was overwhelming. Though roughly twice the size of Texas, Greenland has just 56,375 residents, according to July 2005 census data - less than one-tenth that of Austin.
"You don't see any signs of civilization," Mahon said. "You really have a sense of being in the middle of nowhere, and we were. It was exciting."
The group basked in the blue skies at 70 degrees north latitude, just south of the Arctic Circle, then set up camp. Many of the materials needed were left behind by a previous expedition.
They went for a ski on the glacier at 5 p.m., and turned around once the temperature started to drop. When they stepped out of the plane it was close to 50 degrees; by the time they returned to camp, it had fallen to 20 below. The group passed around a bottle of liquor, then went to sleep.
After four days of waiting, the weather window opened. Mahon, Monahan and four others were on their way.
It was midafternoon by the time they touched down some 30 miles inland. The enormity and complete isolation was overwhelming. Though roughly twice the size of Texas, Greenland has just 56,375 residents, according to July 2005 census data - less than one-tenth that of Austin.
"You don't see any signs of civilization," Mahon said. "You really have a sense of being in the middle of nowhere, and we were. It was exciting."
The group basked in the blue skies at 70 degrees north latitude, just south of the Arctic Circle, then set up camp. Many of the materials needed were left behind by a previous expedition.
They went for a ski on the glacier at 5 p.m., and turned around once the temperature started to drop. When they stepped out of the plane it was close to 50 degrees; by the time they returned to camp, it had fallen to 20 below. The group passed around a bottle of liquor, then went to sleep.
The others flew in early the next morning. After a one-hour respite, they were headed up the glacier, with the top of Gunnbjorns Fjeld their target.
While the climb and the mountain were not as technically demanding as Mahon and Gibans were accustomed to, the voyage had its share of unique variables. In addition to fierce Arctic weather that could change without warning, and polar bears known for wandering into isolated camps, falling into crevasses was a very real possibility, Mahon said. For that reason, group members were tied together.
This group was fortunate, however, to skirt such pitfalls during the six-mile trek covering 5,500 vertical feet to the summit. They made fast time skinning up the gradual pitches of the glacier.
Conditions changed near the summit ridge, though, and the team traded skis for crampons. They were forced to slog through a relentless wind, which Mahon estimated approached 40 mph. It was so fierce it broke the flash card on his digital camera; two members decided to turn around.
"If it was any colder, we all would've had to turn around," Mahon said. "If it were any harder, we probably wouldn't have done it."
Gibans thought there was no way they'd make it to the top, but they couldn't walk away empty-handed.
By the time they took those last few steps onto the summit, the wind, which had been swirling in all directions around them, was unusually calm. The group looked over the Watkins Mountains and snapped a few photographs to document their accomplishment.
Gunnbjorns Fjeld and the Arctic had obliged, if only for a moment.
While the descent was hardly rewarding - sustrugi, or inconsistent ridges in the ice and snow formed by high winds, rutted much of the line - the dinner of lamb and pork chops was the perfect ending to a trying day.
Then, as quickly as they had come together, the group disbanded. Some members had spent just one night in Greenland. Mahon and a small group of others stayed behind for a few days - to ski, to toss the football around, to experience what it feels like to be the only people on Earth.
Jon Maletz's e-mail address is jmaletz@aspentimes.com
While the climb and the mountain were not as technically demanding as Mahon and Gibans were accustomed to, the voyage had its share of unique variables. In addition to fierce Arctic weather that could change without warning, and polar bears known for wandering into isolated camps, falling into crevasses was a very real possibility, Mahon said. For that reason, group members were tied together.
This group was fortunate, however, to skirt such pitfalls during the six-mile trek covering 5,500 vertical feet to the summit. They made fast time skinning up the gradual pitches of the glacier.
Conditions changed near the summit ridge, though, and the team traded skis for crampons. They were forced to slog through a relentless wind, which Mahon estimated approached 40 mph. It was so fierce it broke the flash card on his digital camera; two members decided to turn around.
"If it was any colder, we all would've had to turn around," Mahon said. "If it were any harder, we probably wouldn't have done it."
Gibans thought there was no way they'd make it to the top, but they couldn't walk away empty-handed.
By the time they took those last few steps onto the summit, the wind, which had been swirling in all directions around them, was unusually calm. The group looked over the Watkins Mountains and snapped a few photographs to document their accomplishment.
Gunnbjorns Fjeld and the Arctic had obliged, if only for a moment.
While the descent was hardly rewarding - sustrugi, or inconsistent ridges in the ice and snow formed by high winds, rutted much of the line - the dinner of lamb and pork chops was the perfect ending to a trying day.
Then, as quickly as they had come together, the group disbanded. Some members had spent just one night in Greenland. Mahon and a small group of others stayed behind for a few days - to ski, to toss the football around, to experience what it feels like to be the only people on Earth.
Jon Maletz's e-mail address is jmaletz@aspentimes.com
